Boy Wonder
by Dora Liir-Took
Summary: The brightest witch of her age.  The boy wonder.  What happens when these two cross paths?
1. Chapter 1

For Eric,

Much love.

**Part I**

There are moments in life when you can see it coming—the train is barreling down the tracks towards you. It can't be missed. It's there. It's large and you would have to be blind to miss it.

This moment was not one of these. This moment was a cold smack in the face that seemingly had come from nowhere. It _had_ come from nowhere—it had come from wherever she had come from. Out of the blue. Right off the streets and into this library. Of all places, this library. The feeling had followed her in, walked right up to the young man and smacked him in the face. And now, cheeks red and eyes wide with disbelief, he was staring across the room at the girl.

He didn't believe in love—not of the fairytale kind that so many people did these days. Soul mates. Destiny. One true love. With all the hate he had seen in the world, it was a wonder he believed in love at all. He trusted in his team mates and believed in loyalty and the power that understanding and devotion had. But he had no real use or time for delicate, sweet love that poets filled their books with. Shakespeare was the worst of them all. But Keats was up there too. The great English Romantic writers who believed in nature and youth above intelligence and industry. Or the Bohemians who had no time for reason though they masked that idea by spouting about their need for truth. All had their ideas and all believed in love. Something that connected two people across continents and time eras and language barriers. It was improbable. People could love and people could learn to love but anything beyond basic human interaction and comradely was a fool's need for acceptance and complete approval—the dupe's way of surviving the treachery of life rather than developing a skill to set one apart.

No. He didn't believe in love. But this girl was…something. Something else. Something different. Something beautiful.

She couldn't be much younger than him. Perhaps she was the same age, perhaps older. For all his knowledge the young man had never been good at guessing age. She was standing on her tiptoes up against one of the rows of books, attempting to reach something just a hair out of her reach. Huffing she sighed and walked a measure away before she found stool, dragged it back to her original location and was finally able to retrieve her book. A large one. Old. Yellow pages the young man could see. Most likely records as she was standing in that area.

He watched her gingerly walk across the floor, find a chair and sit to read. Instantly she was gone—lost in a world of names and stories that the book held and unwilling (or unable) to be bothered by anything else. It appeared the young woman's face was legitimately plastered inside the book—nose to page and all. He laughed, thinking of himself.

At point she moved the book out of the way for him to see her expression and it was always different. There was nothing stoic about her when she read. When something intriguing happened, she gasped. When something entertaining happened, she smiled broadly. At time she even laughed and he was left wondering what in a big book of records could be funny.

Perhaps it was that question or the other ones brimming on the tip of his tongue that made him stand. He was halfway towards her before he realized he had stood at all. Pausing for a second to regret this decision he was just about to turn away and make a B-line for the door when she laughed again. It was sweet and calm—a quiet giggle as if she knew how one was to laugh in a library. Nothing too big or outlandish—just a chuckle to release the tension. There was no sadness in the laugh. To her it was a moment of complete and utter happiness.

With that laugh the siren called again and he couldn't stop moving. Not until he was standing before her chair, and looking down at her. The one probably now was that the tongue that had once been so thick with questions was suddenly dry and flat—useless. He stammered for a second, fortunately unable to attract her away from her reading. At last he formed a few words and managed to spit them out,

"Good book?"

The spell of the book was broken and she looked up. Brown eyes. Deep brown. To his great amazement she wasn't frowning despite having been stolen away from her reading.

"Very good," she said. She was British he realized. From the Liverpool area guessing by how she used her R's. He had no idea how or why he knew that but such information (practical or not) was always on his brain.

"I'm new to the area," she continued, "and just reading up on what's what around here."

A rather long, awkward silence went by as he mulled over what to do with that sentence. But she didn't stop smiling. After a grand while he finally said, "Well…uh…welcome…let me be the first to welcome you to the D.C. area."

She smiled brighter now—bigger and bolder with those brown eyes.

She held out her hand to him, "Well, thank you. My name is Hermione."

Without thinking he took her hand in his—sweaty palmed and all, "Hi. I'm Spencer. Spencer Reid."

::::


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

She worked for the government.

That much they had in common.

She didn't like to talk a lot about her work.

That also they had in common.

After a round of coffee and buttered bagels he had learned little else about her—she worked for the government back in Britain, her name was Hermione and she had a nervous habit of pulling strands of hair out from her braid. By the end of their brunch she had a near mane about her head—strands of brown, fluffy hair that had been pulled out of place. Sensing cosmetic troubles, Hermione reached for the large messenger bag she towed everywhere and frantically yanked out a small compact mirror. She gasped, looking at herself and then attempted to flatten out some of the damage.

"Don't…don't looks so scared," Spencer tried to speak again. Most of his attempts throughout their meeting had started off rather unconfidently and often ended I the same fashion. Even now—more than an hour of listening to her speak and he was still stuttering. A tick. A tick brought on by fear of the unknown.

Spencer swallowed and spoke again, "Don't look so scared. You look fine."

"This thing has a mind of its own!" Hermione sighed, still trying to push her hair down, "I swear. I need nothing short of glue to keep it in line."

"Hairspray then?"

The big brown eyes fell on Spencer now, "Sorry?"

Again he swallowed, "Hairspray I said. Hairspray is really nothing more than a simple aerosol glue."

"Right," Hermione nodded, "Hairspray. Why didn't I think of that?"

After a moment or two of her patting and him swallowing went by Hermione gave up and settled the issue by simply drinking her coffee some more. She eyed her guest a bit and pushed on with the conversation, "So…tell me more."

"What more do you want to know?"

There was a new nervous habit now—realizing that pulling at hair was no longer suitable, Hermione took to swirling her foot around anxiously. A few times it was all Spencer could focus on—the rotating foot in its simple pump as it spun around on its ankle. It (like her hair) seemed to have a mind of its own. But for as skiddish as her body was, Hermione voice was more than calm.

"Tell me about…about school," she said, "Where did you go to primary school?"

"Elementary school you mean."

"Right. Sorry."

"No need to apologize," he rounded his shoulders, considering how he wanted to put this. His childhood wasn't exactly classic fairytale after all.

"Um…well…you see, Hermione. The thing you have to understand about…about me…is…well I'm a little…"

A little what? He thought desperately. What word could possibly sum up everything that Dr. Spencer Reid was without sounding psychotic or pompous or bipolar or just plain odd? How was he even supposed to begin to be truthful and yet keep those eyes focused on him? They weren't furling up even as Spencer sat there, grasping for the right thing to say. They were patient eyes that matched the smile just beneath them.

Still frazzled and feeling he had to say something, Spencer threw out the only thing that could come to mind, "Different. I'm…I guess I'm a little different."

"How so?" Hermione asked, now taking another bite of her bagel. She chewed with her mouth shut and wouldn't speak again until after the bite was swallowed. Spencer noted that—it was a manners thing. She took small bites as not to seem piggish or gluttonous. And she chewed for a long time after each bite. Twenty-five times at least.

Spencer was twiddling his thumbs was and wondering if Hermione noticed his ticks like he noticed hers, "What would you say," he began, "if I said…if I said…there were some things about me…that were…" he was really drowning now but pushed on, "What would you say if I told you that…say…I graduated high school…" he nodded at her, "…secondary school…when I was twelve years old."

Even in the shock of hearing something like that, Hermione didn't allow her jaw to fall open for she still had the smallest trace of food in there. Instead she stared like a deer in headlights and laced her mouth shut so tightly that her lips were nothing more than a thin line. Her eyes bulged and quickly her hand was over her mouth. It was something to do Spencer guessed. Something to cover the shock of it all. Hermione chewed even faster now and when she was finished gave out a cry, "That's amazing!"

Spencer laughed, "Oh…yes. So…amazing."

"That's…incredible. I mean…you took all the tests and passed them and…but what about the…" she stopped suddenly, as if remembering something, shook her head and went on, "That's…completely incredible!"

"I swear it's true," Spencer said, "I'm not…just being…I mean I have my diploma if you want to see it. And I mean…" He felt he had to say more now—just to say he had been some kind of super kid genius and leave it at that would be pretentious. There was more to the story—more cons. His life wasn't all sunshine and buttercups. Not that he was the victim. Oh god. He couldn't paint himself like the victim. But he couldn't paint himself like the hero either. So what? He worked for the FBI, graduate high school at twelve, got a doctorate by age seventeen and was part of the BAU by age twenty-one. Who cares? None of that meant he wasn't a perfectly normal human being!

But how to put it. What to say.

"Things…" he tried again, "Things are a little crazy in my life. And I just kind of deal with it. I'm picking up piano. I say picking up but I mean….it's all math, right? I work long hours. _Long_ hours I mean. I work for the FBI you see. I have an IQ of 187. I have an eidetic memory. I grew up in the Las Vegas area. I read at 20,000 words a minute. I've been held hostage twice. Infected with Anthrax once. Oh and I hate eggs. Too many reports on their linkage to salmonella."


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

She couldn't help herself. Eyeing the book just under Spencer's arm, Hermione had to ask.

"What are you reading?"

He recoiled. As if from fear. This was a gesture that Hermione had become used to. All afternoon he had done that—to any questions (any question) asked about him. Even if the inquiry seemed superficial ("What's your favorite color?", "How do you like your eggs?", "How do you take your coffee?", etc.) Spencer still had an edge about him. But as soon as the fear reared its ugly head, it was gone again and he was smiling, "Oh," he said, "Here...geometry."

Sure enough. Hermione smiled as he laid a rather thick textbook down on the table before her. The cover seemed a bit too bold and elementary for Spencer's taste.

"But of course," Hermione began, "This is all very..._beneath _you?"

"_Beneath _me?"

"I mean you know all this already."

"Oh! Yes. But I'm correcting it."

"Come again?"

With a rather snarky grin he flipped open the cover to reveal two random pages—littered with theorems, graphs and sophisticated drawings. All of which was complimented by various red marks. Spencer's chicken scratch seemed to cover the whole book. With each flip of the page, Hermione found new doodles, new circles, new formulas corrected.

"It's a first edition so what do you expect?" Spencer went on, "But this is just...just pathetic. They're just got loads of stuff wrong. The Pythagorean Theorem," he pointed at a spot amongst the red, "Right there. See that?"

Hermione bit her lip, trying hard to remember any bit of geometry she had learned, "Right...yes..."

Whether or not he caught her hesitation was not evident for when Spencer got on a role, he went with it, "As an equation, c must equal the hypotenuse. Of course labels are quite pointless. You could call the hypotenuse 'Z' if you so wanted but when you've already put it in the context of A squared plus B squared equals C squared, you can't change that. That's basic geometry."

And all too quickly he was gone again. His rants went like this—on and on. Always with excitement and zest but often too quickly for even Hermione to keep up with. And, oh, how they jumped from subject to subject! Before Hermione could throw out even an attempt to aid the conversation, Spencer was past geometry and was moving onto transcendentalists or English Romantics as opposed to American. With a train of thought that somehow made sense to him, Hermione had no choice to simply nod and accept that eventually he would run himself tired.

This was not to say that Spencer was not entertaining. It was like listening to someone from a foreign land trying to speak English. At times they got it right and what they said was distinctly funny or intriguing but all too soon, the speaker would fall back into his mother tongue and the listener had little choice but to smile and nod. Even in his moments of small clarity, the passion, humor and unbridled joy Spencer showcased was enough to make anyone (even the dull, even the deaf!) fall under his spell.

At some point he realized how far off the trial he had gotten (it was when he got to talking about Michael Chekov and Stella Adler) and made every attempt to bring it back to both math and the textbook between him and Hermione. He flipped to a new page and pointed another specimen out, "See. That. Does that look like an obtuse triangle to you?"

Now came the moment when Hermione really had to say something, "Um...yes?"

Spencer gave an odd smile and Hermione realized she had said the wrong thing, "I mean no! That is not an...an...a...ah-troose...triangle...yes. I mean...no."

"An _obtuse_ triangle," he repeated himself, "You know...one angle is more than 90 degrees...?"

In a flash, Hermione knew she had failed him. The word _obtuse_ was definitely in her memory somewhere, but it was distant...like the education programs she watched as a child. She knew she had to explain herself for obviously this "ah-troose" triangle was something very basic to normal understandings.

"I...I should explains myself, Spencer. I...my schooling wasn't exactly...orthodox."

"Homeschooled?"

"Not quite. Boarding school."

Taken back, Spencer said, "That's not so strange."

"It was a different kind of boarding school."

Now he was raising an eyebrow, intrigued, "...are you...are you talking about..._culturally _different?"

"Very. Very culturally different. And I don't mean just British."

There was a pause, "I may say something that might offend you."

"How so?"

He looked like a man about to take an Olympic dive as he spoke, "Are you Jewish?"

To which Hermione could only laugh, "No."

"...a polygamist?"

This really got Hermione going. She laughed until she cried at that one but firmly stated that no, she was not a polygamist. Now Spencer's smirk could not grow any wider as he accepted the challenge of just what Hermione was, "Different?" he asked, "Different as in not a corn fed, Christian who attended a public school, went to prom and now works a nine-to-five job, correct? You're different?"

"I'm very different."

"Are you royalty and/or related to the Prime Minister?"

"No."

"Are you rich?"

"I said _culturally _different."

"The Irish Mafia?"

"Like that movie..._The Godfather_?"

"_The Godfather _actually depicts members of the Sicilian Mafia (also known as the Cosa Nostra). It's a common misconception that when people say _mafia_, they mean the Cosa Nostra, but really many cultures have had-"

"No. I'm not part of any mafia."

"Actually you are. In a sense. The word _mafia_ in and of itself means _group_. Webster defines it as a 'close-knit or influential group of people who work together and protect one another's interests'-"

"Spencer."

"Right. Sorry."

He stared at Hermione now with more fervor than ever, as if trying to grasp his answer telepathically. She sighed, "And no...I'm not a time lord."

"How did you know I was thinking about the Doctor?"

"Just a lucky guess. Honestly, I don't think you're going to guess-"

"Are you Wicca?"

The question stopped Hermione dead in her tracks. She met Spencer's jaunty look with a raised eyebrow, "Wicca?"

"Yeah. Webster defines it as 'a religion influenced by pre-Christian beliefs and practices of western Europe that affirms the existence of supernatural power (as magic) and of both male and-"

"I know what Wicca is!" she sighed, "And no...I'm not...that..."

But Spencer's smile wouldn't go away. Reading people is what he did and Hermione knew all too well that while her words said one thing, her face betrayed her. "It's nothing like that," she pushed on, suddenly interested in Spencer's geometry book.

"But it's something like that."

There was a moment of silence.

"Which is fine, Hermione," he went on, "It's actually quite interesting. _Very_ in fact. I've never...in my...with all the stuff I've done with work, I don't know if I've ever met someone who practiced witchcraft and-"

"_I'm not that_," she protested, "And it's...I'm different. Alright. That's it."

This sudden (though tiny) burst of anger deflated Spencer a bit. He sat back in his chair and tried his best at a comfortable smile. He wasn't good with conflict and definitely not good with conflict amongst the other sex. For all his intellect, Spencer was suddenly speechless and couldn't come up with one _normal_ thing to break the tension. Despite himself, the question still hung on the tip of his tongue though. Torn between the need to prove he was right (that his profiling skills were up to par) but also not wanting to break any more ties with this girl, he could only sit there—mouth slightly open, as if the question were about to leap forth. And still pulling at the pages of Spencer's book, Hermione couldn't bring herself to say yes and yet couldn't bring herself to say no.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part IV**

Hours later, the pair was shooed outside by the night staff.

"It can't be _that _late!" Hermione remarked as the dimpled barista tried to excuse them while stifling a yawn. But all she had to do was look around to see. Chairs were stacked up, floors had been mopped down. It was well past midnight as she looked at her watch, and all the while, the two of them had been oblivious to it.

"I'm very sorry!" Hermione repeated over and over again to the baristas as she and Spencer packed up their things and exited. While all the staff assured them that it was no bother, the door did seem to slam a bit too harshly behind them.

Now, outside in the dead of night, Hermione eyes met Spencer's, "I had no idea! I had…no idea how late it was!"

"I feel like I hogged the conversation. I'm sorry."

"Not at all! To be honest, I've been _desperate_ to find someone to talk to. Someone who understands half the things I'm saying…and more even."

They walked a little ways then—unsure of how to uphold the relationship if they weren't talking for that's all it had consisted of so far. Without missing a beat, Spencer plunged back into the topics he'd been devouring before they were hastily ordered out of the shop. This time, he was gun-ho over Chekhov. The boy could practically recite _The Seagull_ word for word—giving each character their own distinct voice. He then moved to Strindberg. For what reason, Hermione had no idea. Play titles such as _Miss Julie_ and _Comrades _floated around. Discussions on the naturalists and everything from censorship to the Swedish language.

What amazed Hermione more than anything else was not so much the _things_ Spencer couldn't help but say, but rather _how_ he said them. Spencer was that child on Christmas morning, seeing his presents under the tree. He was that ten-year-old finally riding a bike by himself. The Wright brothers at the moment of their first flight. Queen Victoria upon finding out she would be queen. He carried inside him an excitement and zest for everything that Hermione wished more people had. Even if just a tenth of what Spencer had. A one hundredth. Everything he talked about was amazing and complex in his eyes. The structure of the eye. A bumblebee in flight. The absence of light. Dr. Who. The American Civil War. His pace quickened when he spoke. His entire body changed; he'd jump or run as if pushing his body to keep up with mind. And while Hermione knew, she could not possibly keep time with him, just watching the spectacle was worthwhile in and of itself.

After a fair bit of wandering, the two found themselves in park. Spencer jumped onto one of the swings and began to swing to and fro, while standing. Suddenly, something in the sky caught his eye and he pointed, "Canis Major!" he said and all at once lost his balance. Before he could recover, he found himself in a pile of pea gravel.

Hermione quickly jumped to his aid, "Oh my god! Are you okay?"

Right as Spencer assured her that he was fine, the swing (still swaying despite the loss of its passenger) smacked him in the back of the head. The two laughed and then there was silence. For the first time all evening, it seemed Spencer was out of things to say. Sitting now together, they realized (simultaneously) how romantic a setting like this could be—if any other two people occupied it. The moon hung brightly in the star speckled sky. A few street lamps gave way to just enough light to see one's way through. The sight would have been quite romantic if it weren't for possibly the two most awkward people in the world sitting there. With silence between them, neither knew what to do or say. Conversation was their foothold, and at the moment there was none.

At least relief came when Hermione raised her eyes to the stars and announced that Spencer had had it wrong, anyway. For what he pointed at was not Canis Major, but rather, Canis Minor.

"There's Procyon and there's Gomisa. You see? There?"

Spencer sighed and then gave a huff, "So it is. Good catch."

"I know a fair bit about stars."

"I've found astronomy is a dying art."

"Oh, really?"

"Not many people know the ancient constellations. I'm impressed."

And then it started again. Mostly because Spencer would rather pull at any subject (even a touchy one) rather than sit in silence again.

"Did you learn astronomy at school?" he asked.

A long pause followed his inquiry and then a very short answer, "Yes."

"At your...your…_culturally different_ school?"

Hermione smiled, "Yes. At my culturally different school."

"What else did you study there?"

An even longer pause followed this question. And an even vaguer answer, "Oh…lots of stuff."

"Such as…?"

Hermione bit her lip and took a sudden interest in Canis Minor all of a sudden.

"I can assure you, Hermione, I've met a fair bit of…odd people…in my line of work. I don't think you'll surprise me."

"Oh. I wouldn't bet on that."

Raising an eyebrow Spencer laughed, "I feel as though I've been issued a challenge."

Her silence was a hard blow to him.

"If you can't talk about it, I understand. I do…I…I just…" he fumbled for words, but he soon simply gave in and allowed the awkward silence to engulf them once again.

At last Hermione spoke up, "I'm not really in a position to talk about it. I'm sorry."

"It's fine!"

"I know how weird this must sound! For goodness sakes, you work for the government, and I know more about you then you know about me. I mean…aren't you _secretive_ around here?"

"There are some things we need to keep secret, but I work for a branch of the CIA. That's open enough as it can be. I tell people that all the time. I mean…not all the time…I…I…you don't want to sound…too snooty or anything. I think it sounds a bit pretentions to go around and say, 'Oh, yes. I work for the government! Your taxes fund my job! Yes! Yes!'"

His last bit of monologue contained a fairly awful English dialect, and Hermione couldn't help but snicker at.

"You are so funny, Spencer," she sighed, "How have we never met before?"

Perplexed, Spencer answered, "Probably because you live in Great Britain, I live in the United States, and the two are thousands of miles apart." He paused and studied Hermione's exasperated face, "That was a rhetorical question, wasn't it?"

"Quite."

Suddenly a street lamp overhead went out. It took a second for eyes to adjust. Fearful of the awful silence, Hermione spoke up—possibly saying too much, "I've never met anyone quite like you, ya know?"

She couldn't see his face very clearly in the sudden darkness, but she imagined Spencer rolled his eyes as he said, "Yeah. I get that a lot."

Silence. Quickly, Spencer did his share to kill it as well, "I have to say the same to you. I've never met…anyone...quite like you, Hermione. I…I don't want to sound conceited…don't think I'm…but you listen to me. I…I have never had anyone…well, that's not true…I…don't think that I'm…I was abused or anything…but I usually don't get people who listen so intently…not that I always have great things to say…I mean I know a fair bit, but sometimes I ramble and I just…I was just wondering…"

Hermione put an end to his rambling. Silence was horrible, but she could tell he was drowning in words now. Without really thinking (and missing her target just a bit), she lunged forward and pressed her mouth up against his. Spencer was frozen on the spot, his lips still stuck in the last word he had said and unable to shift. For a while, they just said there, mouth on mouth, but frozen like statues. Hermione finally did pull away and shook her head at her own stupidity, "I'm sorry! That was really bad! I just…sorry!"

"That's…fine…?"

There was another long pause—more awkward than any of its predecessors.

"You just kissed me," Spencer observed.

"Yes, I did."

"Interesting."

At that, Hermione laughed, "Interesting?"

"Yes."

And with that, he leaned forward and put his mouth on hers again. That was about as far as Spencer could go when it came to kissing—lips on lips and then sit there. Hermione attempted to open hers and push things around a bit, but either in a state of prudish determination or ignorance, Spencer's mouth wouldn't budge. Finally, she pulled away and whispered, "Open your mouth."

Giving Hermione a wry look, he tentatively did. All of a sudden she was kissing him again, but better than before. He hadn't noticed her lip gloss before. Had she just applied it? The taste filled his mouth. Something creamy. Something with a hint of raspberry. She was delicious. Hermione pulled at his face, bringing his whole body in closer towards her. Her tongue twisted inside Spencer's mouth and patiently sought his. She tasted like cream. She was magnificent. His tongue founds its way into her mouth, but not by its own will. She was sucking it there—clamping down with her lips and sucking his tongue like a popsicle.

It wasn't until he felt Hermione go for his belt that Spencer panicked, "Here?" he panted, breaking away for a moment.

Not too far off, another street lamp flicked off, as if in answer to his question. Yes. Here.

The pair wrestled their way off the pea gravel and into an area of unmowed grass. Dew hadn't set in yet. The whole bed felt cool and tantalizing—like little ropes pulling and tying them down. Hermione was aggressive, to say the least, pushing Spencer onto the long grass first and then straddling the boy.

"I should warn you," Spencer breathed, "I…I don't know what I'm doing."

Her lack of answer to that seemed to suggest she didn't care. Once again, Hermione went for the belt and quickly undid it. Without so much as a second to waste, her hand were down his pants, feelings and touching anything she could. She looked at Spencer to gage how much she liked what she was doing. His face was twisted into something between joy and agony. Always a good sign.

Hermione came down on his lips once more, pushing her taste inside him once again and suddenly begging him to take her panties off. All too soon, they were off and all too soon, she had pulled his pants down to a sufficient level, along with tugging out his needed material for the deed at hand.

The panic clicked inside Spencer's mind all of a sudden. He was about to suggest all the horrible things that would happen from this engagement. He was about to suggest a thousand practical things they should do first. He was about ready to cry out the obvious statement that in all actuality (no matter how well she listened or how good she tasted) he really had no idea who Hermione was.

But all too soon, Hermione fell down and threw her head back, moaning as Spencer slipped inside her. With each movement she made, she screamed louder and louder, exclaiming openly how good he was. How perfect. She needed him. She had to have it. It was now or never. She needed him.

Several hours and several episodes of this later, Hermione was seated on the couch inside an apartment she didn't recognize. A cup of coffee and a thousand regrets. She said to herself, "What the fuck did I just do?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Part V**

When Spencer woke up, it was nine thirty-three, and he was late. With a panicked sense of urgency that wasn't at all new to him, he jumped from the bed, grabbing his clothes. The events of last night played over and over again in his mind.

_Uh-oh_.

Hermione. The park. Kissing. Lots and lots of sex. It was with that thought that the pain hit him. His back. His ankle. Every muscle in his body seemed to cry out in dismay. Once again, he fumbled, trying to figure out why, until it hit him: his body isn't used to such contortions as Hermione was putting him through last night.

Her face burned in his mind like a flame. Where was she? How was Spencer supposed to make this awkward exit? Simultaneously a thing a lot like ignominy was coursing through him. Never before in his life had this ever happened. He threw on his clothes, stuffed his shoes onto the wrong feet and look a frightened step out of the bedroom.

To his horror, surprise and relief, Hermione was nowhere to be found. He debated whether or not to leave a note, but gave up after realizing he had no idea what he would write. "Thanks for last night. Hope I see you soon. Dr. Reid."

As Spencer exited the complex, a raggedy old woman (presumably the landlady) waved to him and said good bye. He finally knew what the walk of shame felt like.

:::

Currently, the team was working on a case involving a fleet of murders in the Washington area. They had been home for some time and were happy to be so. On this particular case, Spencer had been sent off to work logistics with the one, the only Penelope. On any other day, he greatly enjoyed Garcia's sense of humor and quirky persona. Today, though, he felt strangely on edge. Despite the fact she wasn't a special agent, Garcia had an uncanny way of seeing through people Reid thought. After walking into her office two hours late and spilling his cup of tea five times, he knew, sooner or later, she would say something.

"Work your magic, honey buns!" she said at one point.

Whatever she had said before that was lost to Spencer. Up until then, he'd been thinking primarily about how soft the skin on Hermione's stomach was. Garcia gave a wild screech like a banshee to get Spencer's attention.

"Sorry!" she said, watching her counterpart jump nearly three feet into the air, "Nothing else was getting to you. I need you to read these for me, sugar." It was then Spencer noticed the giant pile of copy paper before him on the desk. Garcia gave a sympathetic smile, "Yeah, I know. For you, it's no big deal, though. You okay, Reid?"

A long silence went by. Suddenly, Spencer remembered what he was supposed to do when being addressed, "Yeah! Just…not with it today."

"Your headaches?"

"No. I mean…sure…I don't know…just…didn't sleep well last night."

That wasn't really a lie. He had barely slept last night.

Knowing that Hotch was waiting for some kind of news from them, Garcia could only brew Spencer another cup of tea (carefully handing it to him) and explain what she was looking for, "These are transcripts from the father's sermons between the years 1987 and 1994. I need you to find something…_interesting…_in them. And fast."

"What's interesting?"

"Blatant disregard for biblical text would suffice."

"What did he preach from?"

"What do you mean?"

"King James. Gideon."

"Is there that much of a difference?"

"Actually, yes. The interpretation between one from King James-"

"Reid, honey," Garcia broke in with a smile, "Are you going to tell me a cool fact about biblical translations?"

"Well, yes, it's quite interesting-"

"I'm glad you're back, but we're really in crunch time now."

At that exact moment, a phone went off and Garcia was picking it up with a touch of a button, "Good evening," she said in a thick Transylvania accent, "What can I do for you?"

Someone said something on the other line and Garcia giggled wildly. Most likely, it was Derek.

:::

Several hours and one Electra complex later, Reid was sleeping and Garcia was packing up for the day. Spying him, she gave a slap to his shoe and he woke up with a start.

"Go home, boy wonder. We saved the day again."

"What?"

"They caught 'em."

"That's great," Spencer tried to stifle a yawn, "Really. That's wonderful. Are we going home?"

"Yes. It's like midnight."

Looking at his watch, Spencer announced, "It's twelve oh sex…six! Six! Twelve oh six!"

There was a long, awkward pause that was only broken by Garcia's mounting giggling.

"Someone's got a secret!" she sang.

"No. I…what are you talking about?"

She pulled up her chair next to Spencer's and stared at him, lovingly, twirling a blonde pigtail, "My dear Spencer, I know a Freudian slip when I see one, and, while I am flattered, I am spoken for."

The silence continued as Spencer's mind tried to keep up with Garcia's.

"That was a joke, sweetie."

"Right."

"Are you okay?"

Spencer wasn't exactly sure what to say.

"You had a rough night."

That wasn't a question. Garcia was now working her magic. And all too simply, it happened.

"And when I say _rough…_I mean…_rough…_" She gave a sexy purr and Spencer jumped from his seat, tripping on the chair as he exited it.

"You big slut!" Garcia chimed, "Who is she? Who is she? Do I know her?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I know your little behavior analysis tricks, too, boy wonder, and I know when I'm being lied to. Your blinking is picking up. You can't look at me. You got in _on_ last night, didn't you? Didn't you?" She stopped short and her hands flew to her face, "Oh. My. God. You lost your virginity last night, didn't you? Didn't you? It was your _first_ time, wasn't it? Wasn't it?"

Several minutes later, after Spencer had to calm Garcia down and get her stop singing an endless round of, "Spencer lost his V-card!" he tried his best to do the inevitable and explain the day before. He had no idea where to start or what to say. For a long time, he stammered. Revisiting his time with Hermione was harder than he thought it would be. Not because he disliked what had happened, but simply because whenever he got started with the story, thoughts like how soft her stomach was or how thick her hair was filled his mind, making it impossible to keep track of what he was saying.


End file.
